Change Has Come
by silly-crookshanks
Summary: Nineteen years later, and the wizarding world is seemingly at peace. As the children of the heroes of Hogwarts embark on their own adventures at the magical school, will the old grudges held by their parents hold back the lives of Rose Weasley and Scorpius Malfoy? A collaborative story told in the voices of two children looking for magic of their own, from the beginning.


**Author's Note**

Welcome to a story told by two minds. This is an experiment. Collaborative writing has, indeed, been done before. In fact, some of my favourite books have been written in a collaborative voice, but never before have I myself attempted such a thing. I write this story with a newly acquired, and rather marvellous, friend. We have no plan, very few pre-disclosed agreements. I shall write from the point of view of one character, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, and she from the point of view of Rose Weasley. Essentially, two people are telling the story of two people, giving this work of fiction that unusual and wonderful quality of the unknown. Chapter after chapter, not even we shall know what will next happen. Of course, this could quite possibly end in disaster, but, as stated before, it is an experiment.

_silly-crookshanks_

* * *

_It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness._

_Charles Dickens_

_A Tale of Two Cities_

* * *

**Chapter One**

**The Last Mark**

_Scorpius_

Father had always said he was one of the last to be branded with a _true _Dark Mark, and he most certainly wasn't proud of it. After Albus Dumbledore's death, hoards of 'new blood' joined the ranks of the Death Eaters, only joining to seek some unearned glory or escape persecution or some other ulterior motive. Father joined because he had to. Enlisting was the only way that he could live; one did not just refuse the Dark Lord. In the beginning, he had wanted to, and that is what he is ashamed of, although he never tries to hide the now faint scar that once writhed beneath his skin. Too many people know that he was, once, a Death Eater for him to bother. I remember once, when I was smaller, people would stop and stare, and point judging fingers and sneer disgustedly, all because Father was walking down the street. We never ventured out much, because of it. I would often sit between my parents in their bed, and Father would let me trace my fingers over the Mark. It was stronger then; as time has passed, the Mark has faded. I barely notice it now.

The consequences of Father enlisting meant that my family, the once revered House of Malfoy, is now less than admirable. The wizarding world is now unrecognisable from what it had been nineteen years ago. Bonds of trust had been broken. Friends had perished. Enemies had died. The Malfoy's survived because that's what we do. We survive. Anything to survive, we change alliances, we betray trust, we go against our beliefs. We're still respected, in some ways; through years of grovelling to regain trust, we have salvaged some of our previous influence in the wizarding world. Father now holds a rather prestigious position in the Ministry of Magic, and I grew up in the family house, Malfoy Manor, away from any prying eyes. My parents are constantly worried for me, though they won't yet tell me why. I suspect that there are still people who wish to do my father harm, and they may see myself as a way to do so. All throughout my early childhood, I was immensely sheltered, it was all to 'protect me', as my parents had said. Some may say I had no childhood at all. Friends came in the form of the children of Father's work colleagues, days out involved brief visits to relatives, and even though I was always glad to accompany Mother to Diagon Alley, it was a rare privilege. I have hardy any experience in situations with muggles. I suppose, after a lifetime of being prejudiced, Father just couldn't reform his views on those people, thus, if you were to push my into a social situation with a muggle, I would flounder. It seems that I speak of my father quite a lot; even after all he's done, I'm not ashamed to be his son.

I thought of all this, as Father's Mark was revealed, only for a second, as he hoisted my trunk onto a trolley, ready to steer it through the bridge between Platforms 9 and 10. Hogwarts was awaiting a new group of cowering first-years, and I was to a part of them. Although I was nervous, as any child is when they start a new school, I was more sceptical of the people I'd meet. I'd heard many stories from Father about the Weasley and Potter children, the Herbology Professor Neville Longbottom, the Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, and all the other 'heroes' of the Battle of Hogwarts, and their children. I didn't know whether to believe him or not when he told me all the things they had done. Father wasn't bitter toward them, as they had saved his life, but he didn't speak of all of them with the highest of admiration. He warned me to be wary of them, for they might have some prefabricated grudges against me for the things he did, and to choose my allies wisely. He used that exact word, allies.

* * *

Around us, other families were congregating to the barrier between 9 and 10. Occasionally, some would disappear, and magically dissolve into the solid wall. Magic was wonderful. Father had to calculate our entrance to Platform 9 and ¾ carefully; eleven o'clock was fast approaching, and hoards more young wizards and witches were appearing, but we could hardly form an orderly queue to disappear into a wall; the muggles would get suspicious, if they weren't already. Looking around me, as we strode up Platform 8, pretending to be looking for a non-existent train to Manchester, I could easily distinguish magical people from muggles. They all pushed trollies laden with trunks and owls in cages, dosing cats in baskets, and the occasional toad. Some of the children looked around my age, their faces beaming with either excitement or utter terror, my new classmates. I suppose I'd have to tolerate one or two of them, inevitably I'd be in a house with at least some of them. It'll probably be expected for me to make friends with them. Perhaps Hogwarts is more accepting of people who like to be alone. Due to my lack of integration with other people, I've always had trouble making friends. You wouldn't expect it, with an outspoken father like mine, but I'm rather shy. Timid. In all honesty, people scare me. I'm afraid they'll hurt me, like they did Father, or be unaccepting or cruel as people so unavoidably are.

Eventually, we were able to march purposefully at the wall between 9 and 10. It was a surreal experience, even for a wizard, as I don't make a habit of walking into walls. The sensation of being completely enveloped by brick and mortar was bizarre, and slightly distressing, but I was glad to be one step closer to Hogwarts. Before me, churning out the thickest, densest smoke I'd ever seen was the Hogwarts Express, great, scarlet, metallic. Around me, people busied themselves unloading their luggage off the trollies, saying tearful goodbyes to their parents, giving cheerful greetings to their friends. Everywhere was just people, people with people, people without people, and then there was me, quite alone, as Mother and Father had disappeared to unload my own trunk. Mother had given me a long, backbreaking hug, and as Father held out his hand in a more formal manner, she had wiped away tears from her eyes.

"Goodbye, Scorpius. Good luck, son. Make sure to write occasionally. We, I love you," Father had spluttered, unexpected tears also forming in his grey eyes, which I had inherited. Watching the fluid glinting and glistening in the light, against the light, almost silvery, grey of our eyes made me wonder if this is what it looked like when tears filled my eyes. I had never seen myself cry. Mother and Father promised to stay and wave me off, but insisted that I board the train, so that I could secure a compartment of my own. They knew I liked being alone. He knew the playmates he had provided for me weren't my friends. Actually, I don't think I have a friend at all. I set off to board the Hogwarts Express alone.

The platform, the people, the overwhelming magic, were all completely intoxicating, and I found myself, absent minded, wandering about the platform, meandering between families and abandoned owls, not quite sure where I was headed. It was quite by chance that I spotted a group of three people that I recognised immediately. Anyone would. Harry Potter, and Hermione and Ronald Weasley, the trio who had vanquished the Dark Lord, all stood in a close huddle, surrounded by five children, three of which had startling red hair. Ron seemed to be intently muttering to one child, who I could only assume to be his daughter, a tall, studious looking redhead, her face adorned in freckles, her blazing hair bushy, but tamed into a ponytail, her eyes alert with apprehension. Suddenly, Ron pointed in my direction, directly at me, obviously unaware that I had noticed. The gesture was accusing, and Rose, I had overheard her name, followed it tentatively. As soon as she realised that I knew she was looking, as soon as her gaze caught mine, she looked away, blushing violently. Cautiously, I edged around a large group of people, out of their line of sight, into earshot of their conversation.

"Rose, you have to beat him in every test," Ron said seriously, a wicked look glinting in his eyes.

"Oh Ronald," shushed Hermione, who stood behind the two, fussing over a small red haired child, whose eyes were filling with tears.

"Well, you don't want them getting too close, now do you?"

* * *

Mortified, I fled onto the train. It was rather full already, students spilled out of compartments, hanging off the luggage racks, moaning that they had forgotten their new box of Weasley Wizard Wheezes products, or celebrating the fact that they'd be able to use magic again after an entire summer. I sped down the middle of the train, searching desperately for somewhere to sit. I could hear them now, the speculating whispers, the thoughts wondered aloud, 'is that _Draco Malfoy's_ son?' they said. It was inevitable from the start, I suppose. I wouldn't be known as Scorpius. I'd be known as the son of Draco Malfoy. I caught my reflection in the glass of a compartment door; I wasn't small, but my build was slight, my limbs were slightly too long, my fingers rather spindly, my radically blond hair a ruffled mess – I never had been able to control it. I suppose my hair was the only thing that set myself now, and my father, as he had been at the age of eleven, apart. Our resemblance was truly uncanny; I've seen the photographs of him, lined up beside the photographs of myself. Could I ever escape his shadow? I liked to think I could. Everyone said I was a more pleasant version of my father, more tolerable. People seemed to like me, even though I don't really like people. Despite it all, however, I was Draco Malfoy's son, the next Malfoy. There are expectations of what a Malfoy should be. I hope to defy those expectations.


End file.
